A Suitable Family
by Godelot
Summary: The Bertrand family has been pureblood and prejudiced for generations, but as Voldemort begins to gain control over their lives, priorities begin to change. The Bertrand brothers and their children must choose what they allow to define them. Prequel/OC (1945-mid 1980s) (Most characters unlisted, as there are simply too many.)
1. Chapter 1: The Knights Congregate

_One_

_The Knights Congregate_

Crevan straightened his bow tie nervously in the mirror. Tom was sure to be displeased about this news, though how much of his disapproval would land upon _him_ must be unknown until Tom could be informed. He swallowed, which made the bow tie – which was entirely too tight – go crooked again.

He sighed. Hell, Tom would probably disapprove of the bow tie, too. He'd say it wasn't dignified enough to be associated, through any means, with him. He would especially dislike the polka dots. Crevan, with another, more ponderous sigh, took the thing off entirely and tossed it aside.

His brother Osbert still sat, unspeaking and unmoving, upon the small green-upholstered footstool beside him. Ozzie only blinked his faint blond lashes and stared, with a grim expression, at Crevan's dressing-room carpet.

"Marrying the girl is out of the question, Ozzie," Crevan said abruptly, going over to his selection of silk neckties and holding them up to his tan plaid robes in front of the mirror. "You're only eighteen, by Jove – your life would be over! You must hand her over a large sum of money in exchange for her agreement to absolutely and finally vacate your life."

"Vacate my life?" said Ozzie incredulously. "She's just had my baby, Crev. How could I do that? It doesn't seem quite…right."

"Not only is it right, it's proper. Think about it, Ozzie. Think about who we _are_. How could you go around with _her_ and…and _it_ and still be associated with this family? With me?"

"Come now, Crevan, you're starting to sound like Father. If you ask me, it's about time this family got off its high horse and joined up with the rest of the world."

At the words, "joined up," Crevan felt a thrill pass through his body, a thrill of combined excitement and anxiety. For _years _he had wanted this, to be admitted into Tom Riddle's inner circle, and just as it was finally happening – _really _happening, after such a wait – his brother, his no-good, useless embarrassment of a brother sprung on him that he'd unwittingly impregnated some Muggle American who was living with her aunt in a hotel in Cornwall. Never would Crevan ever believed that a Bertrand, any Bertrand, even Osbert, could behave in such a fashion, but he _had_. Now he, Crevan, was officially related to a – he shuddered even thinking about how it sounded – half-blood.

He could see, in the mirror, his own face turning pink with anger, and he thought to himself that he indeed _did _look quite like their father, and that perhaps twenty-one years old was rather too young to resemble one's own father.

"Now, look here, Ozzie. That girl simply must be dealt with. Give her whatever she wants – for goodness' sake, I'll _help _you – but she must disappear. Think of me, Ozzie. Your own brother. Think of how this would affect _me_."

Osbert raised an eyebrow, and Crevan instantly knew he'd said the wrong thing. "Think of _you_? Dorothy just had a baby, a beautiful, innocent little baby girl, completely by accident, and you want me to send both of them packing simply because _you _happen to be embarrassed to be related to them _through me_? Unbelievable. You know, family oughtn't treat one another like this. That little girl is your niece!"

"No, she isn't," Crevan said haughtily, finally choosing a burgundy silk tie with silver and gold Celtic knots on it. "She is your disgraceful bastard daughter, and I refuse to be associated with such a thing!"

Now Osbert's face was even redder than his, which clashed with his fair hair. "Fine! You shan't be associated with _me_, then!" He stood up and angrily made for the door, stomping in what Crevan deemed a dismally undignified fashion. "I'm marrying her and moving to New York!"

"Suit yourself!" Crevan had another thought. "She's just using you for your money, you know!"

As he was knotting his tie in a Windsor knot that impressed even him, a shoe hit him in the head, disarranging his perfectly slicked-down side part. "Oh, fuck off, Ozzie!"

Osbert had poked his head around the corner, and his wand was out. He pointed it at a bottle of cologne and – before Crevan could even protest – dumped it onto his brother with a gleeful chuckle.

"You –" Crevan, reeking of _millefleurs_, started running at Osbert, but he had already Disapparated.

He took an experimental whiff of himself, and promptly choked. He was absolutely putrid. He changed his robes, and _still _smelled: it was in his hair. His pocketwatch said, however, that he was in danger of running late to his own party; he would simply have to pretend as if it hadn't happened.

The elves and caterer had done an admirable job of preparing for the gathering, in Crevan's opinion, though he would still endeavor to pay the caterers as little as possible. He was holding the party in the small dining room, since it was only going to be himself, Tom, and six others, but they had crammed the mahogany banquette with pyramids of fruit, cornucopias of nuts, and even some sort of unappetizing jelly creation that nonetheless looked expensive. He gave it a light poke by way of experiment, and it trembled unsettlingly. He hoped it was merely decoration, and not considered – by some perverted stretch of the imagination – food.

He smiled to himself as he looked around the room. He was always surprised that this enormous manor was _his_. Candlelight from within was reflected on the windows, and the reflection they gave made the room feel snug and cozy. He wanted them to arrive, however, in the grand front hall, which was one and a half times as tall as a normal house, and encrusted all around with gold filigree, brocade, neoclassical nymphs, and other Baroque trappings that had been favored by his ancestor, Arnulf von Brachenheuer. An enormous crystal chandelier dangled from the fresco on the ceiling, which featured a multitude of strategically denuded beauties and their impossibly muscled male cohorts (Crevan found himself wishing sometimes that these fellows had been painted to look a tad more pale and weedy, so as not to make him feel so inferior). He hoped Tom would be impressed.

He still remembered the day he met Tom, when he had defended him from some older bullies on the train. He had gotten a bloody nose from the bullies, and Tom had been angry with him for a week for interfering. Later on that year, Tom had had the opportunity to laugh at him after he'd taken a tumble down a flight of stairs, and their acquaintanceship had been neutral for several years following. Crevan had been Head Boy when Tom was a Prefect, however, and the two of them had been constantly at odds: everybody, including Crevan, admired Tom a great deal more, and completely ignored Crevan's title. He, in truth, often forgot he had it himself. He, along with the rest of the world, viewed himself as a slightly airheaded little blighter who had more academic expertise than common sense, and had never really known struggle in his life; meanwhile, Tom had both kinds of intelligence, and had obtained them despite what he mysteriously referred to as an "undesirable childhood." He was astoundingly handsome, yet – unlike most boys his age – seemed to have no interest in girls, boys, or anything else apart from studying. Once, Crevan had attempted to entice Tom to attend a Quidditch match with him, Osbert, and Crevan's then-girlfriend Ethelinda over Christmas holidays, and Tom had merely fixed him with a cold, blank stare until Crevan had given up and left the room.

After his own graduation, without the obligation of work, Crevan had taken up various hobbies, one of which was collecting. He collected chess sets, books, works of art, family heirlooms, potion ingredients, teacups, different sorts of shampoo, neckties, Quidditch memorabilia, and Christmas cards. His collecting frequently brought him through the unattractive, black-lacquered doors of Borgin and Burke, in Knockturn Alley, and there he had first encountered Alya Manderley, amongst other delightful commodities.

Alya Manderley was that rare thing: a beautiful pure-blooded girl. Far from looking permanently high on opiates, or as if she had been born without a chin, or like one of the uglier Hapsburgs, Alya had a pert little nose, long legs, and nicely formed lips. They happened to be positively caked in red lipstick, but, Crevan thought to himself by way of excuse, that was the fashion. She was Canadian, and independently wealthy. She did _something_, but Crevan didn't always listen to what she was saying, so he could never think what it was. She'd grown up with three maiden aunts in Manitoba, and they had had a Siamese cat called Bathilda, a sister named Sabrina, and a distant cousin on her mother's side who was an Egyptologist, which was the extent of Crevan's knowledge about her personal life. He had scattered photographs of her throughout the house, hoping to impress all the fellows with his conquest. Their children would be beautiful, as Alya had helpfully demonstrated to him by cutting up photographs of the two of them and arranging their features together in a balanced display of pedigree. (He had thought of putting those up, but he felt it would've required too much explanation.)

He and Alya soon had begun "running into one another" twice a week at Borgin and Burke, for a time, until she'd returned to Canada, and his knowledge of the owners had become so intimate that Tom had asked him for a reference after his own graduation, and Crevan had joyfully said yes. (What he actually said was, "Oh, yes, old boy, topping, yes of course I will, to be sure, don't you worry about it, yes." He tended to abridge this somewhat in his own mind to make himself sound more dignified.) He had sent Tom a nice, long, five page reference, with additional amendments thereafter when he had forgotten things, and needless to say, Tom had gotten the position.

He had gone round Tom's for tea, shortly after, and had become vaguely acquainted with some of the fellows who hung round him all the time: Carrow, Yaxley, Avery, Lestrange. He wasn't sure he liked them – seemed a bit supercilious, honestly, and Yaxley had something of a creepy stare about him – but they were, as his father would've said, "the right sorts," and Crevan felt as though he were accomplishing something by cultivating a greater friendship with them. They'd come to his Magic Carpet Party, and his Pyjama Party, and his It's Not Santa Party (during which they all dressed up in Santa suits and played harmless Christmas pranks on Muggles such as making their Christmas trees disappear and filling their stockings with cockroaches, though he wasn't entirely sure that Lestrange had played a _harmless _prank). Tom, of course, hadn't come, but he had occasionally joined him for a game of chess.

"You know, Crevan," Tom had said during one of these games, just before his knight had bludgeoned the absolute dickens out of his last rook, "I've been thinking of starting a…sort of club."

"A club?"

"Yes. Exclusive. Purebloods _only_." He smiled. "More details soon to follow."

"Why – of course. Yes. In the tradition of the great gentlemen's clubs of my grandfather's day: the Demosthenes Club, the Walpurgis Club –"

"Your move, Crevan."

"Ah. Yes. Why not leave me with a few pieces to move with, eh, old boy!" Creval laughed nervously. He _always _bet money on chess games, and he _always _lost. He could stand to lose the money, but he did feel rather an idiot.

"I would if you were capable of defending your board," said Tom. Crevan preferred to take this as a good-natured jest between friends. "Tell me more about this Walpurgis Club. I like the sound of it – sort of German, isn't it?"

Then, last week, he'd gotten an owl from Tom that had said something about the Knights of Walpurgis, and Crevan had said he would have a dinner party, and Tom directed him to invite Avery, Nott, Dolohov, Lestrange, Mulciber, and Rosier. Crevan had gone with a "knights" theme, choosing medieval food and hanging heraldic collectibles in the dining room. It was positively splendid. He had visions of all of them doing aristocratic things like smoking cigars, and browsing newspapers and saying "yaaaas, yaaaas," and devising new ways to play pranks on unsuspecting Muggles.

Ethelinda – who, since their only dates had been at age sixteen and their only sexual experience had been some rather wet and unpleasant kisses in the broom closets at Hogwarts, was now one of his best friends – had told him that she'd heard that Tom, especially, had gotten up to some unsavory things. She wouldn't say what those things were, but she simply didn't trust him: she'd gone out a few times with Lestrange, whom she'd summarily dumped one evening after a fancy dinner in Edinburgh's Hyde Restaurant because, as she put it, he'd "gotten all rape-ish in the alleyway," and he had told her about Tom.

"I think he thought he was _impressing_ me," said Ethelinda, "but really I just thought, 'this man might actually be mental,' and it was something of a turn-off. Well, there was that, and his breath was outrageous."

Crevan had refused to believe it, and still did. Lestrange was probably _inventing _things to impress Ethelinda, which is what he told her. They were all decent chaps, perhaps even a bit more keen on the idea of purebloodedness even than he was, but fundamentally just pleasant mates.

They arrived at eight, as directed, in the large fireplace in the front hall. To Crevan's slight disappointment, only Dolohov had any words of admiration for the décor. Lestrange looked actually _disgusted _by it; then again, he was rather a plain fellow, thought Crevan.

Tom was late; Avery said that he was probably held up at Borgin and Burke. They all milled around the parlor, uncomfortably sipping mulled wine that the house-elves brought in, glancing surreptitiously at their watches and making slight noises of impatience. Snow was drifting up outside, and flakes were still swirling in the air. Crevan wondered where Osbert had gone to – if he was with that loathsome Dorothy woman – and whether he would see sense. If he did, perhaps Tom needn't be told; but he felt, somehow, that it was probably best to tell him. Better be honest now than have it come out later, when he was entrenched in whatever sort of club this was to be. He had seen Tom angry, and it wasn't an emotion he cared to excite; and lying to him would most certainly do just that.

"Interesting things you have in here," said Dolohov from across the room, his dark head bent over a glass display case Crevan had set up with some _objects d'art _he'd found at Borgin and Burke's. They all brought back memories of Alya, and her strong perfume and her fox-fur stole. And her curiously thick eyeliner, and her peculiarly pointy breasts.

"Oh, yaaas," said Crevan, practicing for later. "That vial there belonged to Theodorus Marxam, who, as I'm sure you know, was instrumental in applying some new discoveries in Muggle science to our own potion-making. This here is a painted egg containing the shrunken head of Fernando Fandango, who discovered the ancient Mayan city of Cua – oh, forgive me, I can't even pronounce it – and was punished by the city's chief wizard."

"Why a painted egg?"

"The head wound up in the possession of Maria Cristina Hidalgo, who thought it was rather unsanitary to keep a head lying around uncovered. So she commissioned this egg from, I believe, Faberge."

"But why do you _have _the head?"

"Er – because it's a perfect example of the advancements in Mayan head-shrinking spells from the sixteenth century."

"I see."

If Crevan told the truth, he would say he had no idea why he had it: it was old, it was expensive, and he felt like purchasing something.

It was then, with a faint _pop_, that Tom appeared. He was dressed, as he normally was, in elegant and well-tailored black.

"Good evening. I was held up at the store," he announced.

"Ah, quite! I thought that might be it," Crevan said. "Well, dinner is served – no further ado, eh!"

"Crevan," Tom said, motioning for him to approach, "a word?"

The rest of the party was already on the move into the dining room, and Crevan was sorely tempted to whine that he was just as hungry as anyone else. Dolohov looked back, curious, but continued on with the others.

"Your brother Osbert was in Borgin and Burke's, Crevan – in fact, he was the reason I was held up." He gave Crevan a probing look, and Crevan nervously avoided eye contact. "He was selling some family jewels, actually – ones that he freely admitted were left to him by your father when he died. Any idea why that might be?"

"I – er – no," said Crevan. _How abominably nosy, _he thought. "He, er, perhaps he lost a bet."

"Indeed." Tom sniffed. "He also carried the unmistakable odor of brandy, and appeared absolutely intoxicated. I was obliged to reserve him a room at the Leaky Cauldron so he could sleep it off."

"Perhaps he lost a bet with dedicated alcoholics."

Tom cleared his throat, and looked at Crevan with some slight annoyance. "Crevan, there's no use prevaricating. I could tell, through the haze of the alcohol, that the two of you had argued, and that his being there was directly related to the fight. I could also sense," he added, wrinkling his nose, "that females were involved. And, if I'm not mistaken, a child?"

Crevan felt that his heart would actually leap from his skin, right through his brand-new robes, and then lay there, ruining the Aubusson by spurting all over the fibers. He could see himself in the mirror over the marble mantel, and he thought with disdain that he looked exactly like something piscine mounted on a wall.

"Er – yes. My, er, little brother has gone and involved himself – unwisely, I must say, and entirely without my knowledge – with – a – er – American Muggle woman."

Tom's eyes narrowed. He looked almost snakelike, Crevan thought. He wished he would stop it; perhaps he was old-fashioned, but people should look like people. "Was he selling the objects in order to – to _pay _for her?"

"Well, she wasn't a prostitute. But I did tell him to, if he could, pay her to get out of his life forever. And to get it in writing, if possible." Crevan wasn't sure he'd mentioned the writing. Hopefully Osbert would be clever enough to figure it out.

"It's a start," said Tom, "but then, you and Osbert are not at fault. You shouldn't give up your money to some…some scum. And suppose she comes back? Suppose she wants _more_? They always do want more."

"I hadn't thought of that," confessed Crevan.

"And what sex is the infant?"

"It's a girl, he said."

"Well, then, it mightn't inherit. But then, it might." There was an odd glow in Tom's eyes. "I know exactly what must be done. Give me the lady's name, and I will find her and deal with her properly."

Crevan wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. "Deal with her properly? How so?"

Tom smiled. "_Properly_. By doing the only thing _proper _to be done with such a person as that. Come, now, Crevan. The name. I promise, I shall be done before dessert."

"Well, now, Tom! Nothing has to be done _tonight_!"

"Indeed it does, before further damage can occur. But your implication is right – I'm too hasty. After dinner, then." He smiled again. Crevan really wasn't comfortable with these smiles. "It'll be my dessert."

"But…but we do have blancmange," Crevan said feebly, as Tom strode, whistling cheerfully, into the dining room. He followed, feeling weak and dejected, as if the conversation had entirely gotten away from him.

The conversation got away from him all evening. They ate all his food, and yet didn't mention the ostensible reason for the party once, which was the Knights of Walpurgis. Crevan tried bringing it up himself, and after a brief discussion, Tom turned the conversation around again back to the evils of bad blood. Crevan was, quite frankly, bored by the whole thing. He thought they were going to be creating a lively, well-rounded organization, not one devoted to moaning about Mudbloods. He'd thought they'd discuss politics, travel, sports. Not some infernally stupid encounter that Mulciber had had for five minutes – five minutes! – at the Leaky Cauldron once with a Mudblood who had stolen his seat.

His attempts to redirect the conversation got more and more desperate, and he used Mulciber's Leaky Cauldron tale of woe as an attempt to steer the conversation towards politics – namely, by saying, "Speaking of cauldrons – that new chap they've got in at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is such a time-waster, eh, with that new ordinance about cauldron handles?"

Everybody looked at him as if he'd just suggested they all leap up onto the table and begin playing _Greensleeves _on kazoo. "Er – I believe his name is – er – Geoffrey Weasley?"

"Horrid family, the Weasleys! No pureblood pride! Every generation, at least one marries a Mudblood!"

Crevan groaned, and gave up.

After the blancmange, which only Mulciber seemed to like, Tom stood up.

"Regrettably, I'll have to cut the evening short. The dinner has been very well-prepared, Crevan, but you and I do have that particular errand you mentioned. Time is of the essence," he said to everyone else. "Although – Dolohov, you can come along."

"What's it about?" said Nott. Crevan realized for the first time that he really didn't _like _Nott: he was prying, and he had this sort of lazy drawl about him that he found tiresomely depressing.

"None of it concerns you at this time. However, the errand which occupies Crevan, Antonin and me tonight will, I am pleased to say, hopefully be a typical sort of errand in future, so you shall all have your turn. Goodnight. Come with me, Crevan, Antonin; I'd like to formulate a plan before we go."

Crevan was anxious, puzzled – and enraged. _He _was the host! _He _decided when the party was over! _He _decided what he did with his evening afterward! _Not Tom Riddle_. The boy was getting entirely too uppity nowadays; needed to be taken down a peg or two.

"Now, look here, Tom, I've had quite enough!" he said, once the others had either Disapparated or filed into the fireplace. "I've had absolutely no say in this –"

"You _did _have a say," Tom hissed. "And you chose the easy way. The wrong way. We both know that. Now it's up to me to direct things the _right _way. Give me her name."

"I will most certainly not!"

"Don't make me force you, Crevan. You could be a useful ally to me, but not if you resist me at every turn."

"Ally! That's rich, isn't it? What are you, a _country_? Did I miss something – suddenly you're Bulgaria, or something, is it?"

"An ally," repeated Tom, ignoring everything else Crevan said. "Now, the name."

"No!"

Before he could even register it, Crevan found himself blasted backwards, perilously close to the fireplace grate. "Good heavens, Tom! I say, you _are _overreacting a touch." He cleared his throat. "If you're this passionate about it, I'll give you the name. But I say, Tom – there'll be no killing tonight. We Obliviate the young hussy and that's it."

"What about the child? It carries your son's blood, you know."

"If the girl doesn't remember, there's no danger of any messy inheritance situations, is there? We'll make her think it's…it's some film star's, or singer's."

"Then the child will be adopted out, if she's believed delusional…feasible, Crevan, feasible." He nodded. "Right. Dolohov, we're ready. Crevan, really, it's high time you gave up that name."

"Dorothy something. Williams, I believe it is. Yes – Williams."

"Where is she?"

"Hotel in Cornwall. She's travelling with her aunt. Elderly lady, spinster."

"You get further information from Osbert: we need the hotel name. We go to Cornwall. We use a Muggle telephone to ring the hotel. You pretend to be your brother, Crevan; your voices are similar, and over a telephone, she won't know the difference. We get let into the hotel and into the room. There, we Stun and Obliviate Dorothy and the aunt. We plant false memories of the whelp's father, and there you have it. Done."

Crevan bit his lip. He fairly gnawed upon it, but Bertrands did not _gnaw_. "Sounds…feasible," he managed weakly. Really, he didn't think Osbert would sell Dorothy out quite so easily.

"It's more than feasible. It's necessary," said Tom. "Off to Cornwall, gentlemen."


	2. Chapter 2: In the Cauldron

_Two_

_In the Cauldron_

After a brief argument, during which Dolohov twice called him an old woman, Crevan convinced them to travel to the Cauldron via Floo Powder because it was more genteel than simply appearing in someone's establishment. Tom allowed it without protest, which made him nervous, but he decided not to question his victory overmuch. They arrived in the front room as the clock was striking ten, which Crevan thought was unnecessarily foreboding. It reminded him of a rather sinister trick his great-grandfather had once played on a Muggle chap called Chuck something who had annoyed him once in London, wherein his grandfather, disguised as a ghost, had Apparated into Chuck's sitting room as he was sitting there, musing over tea, and had shouted and moaned and clanked and told Chuck that he was going to be visited by ghosts throughout the night. Of course, on his way out, he'd Splinched himself because he was laughing so hard, and when he'd gone back to get his finger and left big toe, Chuck had reportedly beaned him with a bowl of oatmeal. But it'd started out well enough.

Crevan found it more congenial to think of his grandfather's prank at that moment than to attempt coming up with a mental script for his conversation with Osbert. Tom had given him some sort of sober-up potion, but Crevan fancied that Osbert was probably going to attempt an altercation, and he was simply too tired. He wanted to simply creep about Osbert's room in silence, avoiding confrontation entirely, and uncover the bird's whereabouts in an address book.

They waited in the bar, nursing brandies and, Crevan thought suspiciously, probably chortling about what idiots the Bertrands were. He climbed the stairs, thinking to himself that they were probably right.

Osbert's door wasn't even locked, and Crevan slid in without even a creak. He grinned in the dark: this _never _happened! He always –

THRUMP. Crevan tripped over a shoe. He flailed ungracefully, grabbing at the air, alighting at last upon a metal bedframe, against which his large Bertrand signet rings made a metallic DING. Hastily he flailed out again, grabbed a surface, tried to pull himself up and wound up toppling a washstand and basin, CRASH.

This _always _happened. Attempts at stealth always wound up in a spectacular cacophony of failure.

"I say! I say! Who?" said Osbert, snorting and waking up. He was clearly still drunk. Crevan thought that if he stayed very still, perhaps the alcohol would convince his brother that there was nobody in his room.

Osbert, however, turned the lights on.

"I say! Crevan, what _are _you doing?"

"I—came to apologize," Crevan said, trying to sound as if this weren't terribly improvised bullshit. "For what I said earlier."

"Why?"

"Er—because. I felt—er—badly."

"No, you didn't. What are you _really _doing here?"

"I swear! I felt badly. In fact – er – I was going to, ah, send Miss Dorothy something myself. A, er, token of welcome. Welcome to the, ah, family as it were."

"_What is going on_? I know you, Crevan Bertrand, and you don't send people tokens of welcome."

"JUST BELIEVE ME, WILL YOU?" Crevan said, exasperated and out of ideas. "I decided that you are my brother – my blood – and, ah, your happiness matters than some old, outdated ideal of Father's."

Osbert stared at him, dumbfounded, his prominent chin lowered in disbelief. Crevan wondered how his brother ever _kissed _anyone with a chin like that.

"D' you mean it?" said Osbert.

"Of course," said Crevan. _I wonder if he can tell I'm lying_, he thought. He felt slightly guilty about the lie – much more than slightly – but what could he do? He didn't want to attract Tom's ire.

Osbert still appeared skeptical. Crevan had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but he removed his wand from his pocket.

"What are you –"

"_Confundo!" _said Crevan, knocking his brother backwards with a faint, rather sparkly orange haze. Osbert rubbed his forehead, and looked around blearily.

"Here now. What's this? What's happening?" Between the charm and his residual drunkness, he appeared to be hardly conscious.

"I'm going to visit Dorothy," he said. "Family welcome, all that. Many apologies for previous attitudes. Where is she staying?"

Osbert beamed, still slumped against the wall. Crevan had an immediate and unaccountable urge to jump out of a window: this was entirely too far out of the ordinary for his liking.

"The Bell and Rose, Truro. I knew you'd come around, Crevan." He gazed around the room. "Where am I?"

"You were staying at the Cauldron, sleeping off a night of hearty drinking. Come on, back to bed."

Crevan pulled Osbert up and dragged him toward the bed, letting him flop across it horizontally, his tall frame dangling off either end.

"You're an excellent brother, mate," said Osbert.

_Is he _trying _to make me feel like a bucket of slime? _Crevan wondered. Although he was right – Elizabeth _would _likely be a witch. If she grew up in England, even in an orphanage, she might be attending school with his own children someday, which was odd to think of. His and Alya's (well, probably hers) children, blindly meandering the same halls as Osbert's anonymous, bastard, forgotten daughter. Who would most likely have attempted, if not succeeded, to engineer his demise by then for robbing him of his family; but, never mind, he would have found someone more suitable.

He would have to do something else for his brother's memories of Dorothy, he thought. He wasn't sure what. Ethelinda was the Memory Charm guru – she'd once, as practice, made him think that he was Professor Dumbledore's brother, and had howled with laughter when Crevan had run into him in the hallway and teased him about his beard, calling him Albie – but he couldn't really ask her. He had the inkling that she wouldn't approve. Her ideas were, to his mind, somewhat disturbingly liberal.

Everything about this put him quite out of patience, he thought, turning off Osbert's light and descending the stairway. It was all very strange, and so much _work_.

Tom and Dolohov were still sipping the same glasses of brandy, two deep black silhouettes against the white walls. Tom was showing him a small jeweled box.

"All set, I think," said Crevan. "I Confunded him. Although, he'll still remember Dorothy and wonder what's happened. I've thought that perhaps we should forge a letter from her telling him that she's left him to return to America."

Tom gave a curt nod. "Acceptable. That'll stop him looking for her. Did you get a hotel name?"

"She's at the Bell and Rose, Truro. Suppose that's our next destination."

Dolohov drained his glass. "Let's go, then."

They went outside to Disapparate, and then there was an hour during which they all wound up in different parts of Truro: Tom had appeared inside a cottage rose garden (it was dead, being winter, but the snow at least hadn't hit Truro), Dolohov in a bell tower, and Crevan in a closet inside the hotel, behind whose door lay a couple making passionate love. At least, Crevan thought it was a couple, until he heard another female voice. Intrigued as he was, he thought it best to enter the hotel via the lobby.

He tried again and successfully Apparated in an alley across the road from the hotel. Bitter winds whistled through the narrow passage, numbing his cheeks and fingers.

"Eurgh," said Crevan. This was getting ridiculous. He simply didn't know what he was _doing _here. He supposed he ought to have felt that he was on an important mission to save his family's dignity, but really he felt that this entire incident was simply marked by hideously poor planning. Bertrands didn't _belong _in alleyways.

He gingerly stepped through piles of squashy, foul-smelling rubbish, and dodged the territorial peevishness of a couple alley cats. He came out of the alley just as Dolohov, looking about him in confusion, was approaching the hotel, peering at the sign. Crevan waved as he crossed the street.

"Seen Tom?" said Crevan.

"No. I Apparated into a bell tower and had to find my way back – I'm sure he's somewhere around." Dolohov cleared his throat; his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the area. "Why don't we go over the plan, eh? Come with me."

"I thought we knew the plan. We Memory-charm the girl –"

"Yes, but we need to discuss contingencies. No offense, mate, but you're not known for your ability to think on your feet."

"I'm very quick! Very good at thinking on my feet!" Crevan said defensively.

"Come on. I've known you since we were first years, remember? I saw you ask that McGonagall girl if she wanted to go into Hogsmeade with you."

"Oh…oh, you did, didn't you? I'd forgotten…_that_." Crevan cleared his throat and shifted his feet nervously. Rather unsporting of him to bring that up – both because he'd wound up loathing the girl, and because she'd shot him down so spectacularly. He hadn't thought it quite ladylike of her to laugh at him, ask him if he was serious, and tell him he looked like a hedgehog. She had been seventeen, and he about twelve, but he imagined that in that case it was her responsibility to be adult about it, rather than mock his infantile passions. In return, he had said, "I – I am serious; and I don't look like a hedgehog, you look like…like….like…" And he had never finished his sentence, because he had simply run away. He'd thought of it as extracting himself from an unwinnable scenario, but it had been, in fact, running away.

"Now, let's go. Let's make this quick – fucking _cold_, isn't it?"

He went with Dolohov into another alleyway beside the hotel, where he said they could talk in private and wait for Tom. He supposed later that he probably ought to have expected what happened next, but he hadn't. Really, he mustn't be so trusting of people.

"_Stupefy!"_

When he awoke, it was still night. Stars shone vividly in a cloudless sky, and walls rose black above him.

Somebody had covered him with a blanket, and a fire burned in a barrel next to him. He didn't feel overly cold; somebody must have cast a warming charm on him. Tom was standing there against the wall: he was illuminated with the fire's golden light. Beside him was an impressively large and capacious-looking suitcase.

"I say," said Crevan, annoyed, "what the fuck happened? What happened to the plan?"

"Your plan was different from mine," said Tom. "Everything's taken care of."

"But what _happened_? What was it that you and Dolohov had to Stun me and leave me in an alleyway –"

A muffled cry came from the suitcase – a baby's cry. Suddenly Crevan understood.

"You – took Elizabeth? But why?"

"Because I thought it unwise to deal with her as I dealt with her mother and great-aunt."

Crevan felt a chill, and it wasn't the charm wearing off. "You – you killed them." It wasn't a question. It was what he'd been apprehensive about – a sneaking suspicion he'd attempted to ignore.

Tom only nodded. "The infant, though… I might have killed her. Don't think I wouldn't have. However…much as I loathe the idea of dirty blood, she is half-Bertrand. That half…it's an experiment, leaving her alive. Which side within her will win? Her mother's stupidity, her commonness? She tried to offer herself to me in exchange for her life, as if a man like me would be interested in such base pursuits. I must say, the great-aunt had quite a bit of fire in her. Successfully shot Dolohov in the arm." He smiled. "I have to admit, that was quite amusing. That, more than anything, decided it for me."

"So…what's going to happen to her?"

"Orphanage. I'll let you choose where."

"Oh, how _generous. _You know, it was rather unnecessary to kill the girl."

"Maybe in your eyes. Where shall I put her? I've got to drop her off before the sun rises."

Crevan sighed. "Always fancied Bury St. Edmunds. Nice little coastal town. Historical."

Tom nodded. "Done." He picked up the suitcase, and it emitted another short cry. Then, it began squalling uncontrollably. "I fear it doesn't bode well for her character, this." Then he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3: The Manderleys

_Authorial note: It is true that Tom Riddle does not revisit the idea of the Knights of Walpurgis. Following the incident with Dorothy, he reconsiders some things. Crevan is not the only one whose priorities change after that night._

_Three_

_The Manderleys_

It took a week for Crevan to feel warm again after his night in Truro, and it took him a month to respond to Tom's owls. The new year passed, and he spent it alone: he'd never let the day pass without attending at least one bash, but – though he had a stack of envelopes on his mantel a foot high – he didn't much feel like a party. The clock chimed midnight, and January 1, 1947 saw Crevan Bertrand sitting alone in a darkened library, illuminated by only one lamp, absentmindedly petting the cat and thinking in a serious vein that hadn't previously occurred to him.

He had been in contact with nobody but Alya and the Memory-Charmed Osbert since the incident. For the first time in its history, the ancestral home of the Bertrands, Cloakham Park, was impenetrable: Crevan cast charms to prevent Apparation, removed it from the Floo network, made the roads to it lead to nowhere, and made it impossible to fly a broom within three hundred yards. He was quite pleased with himself: it was the most he'd done since graduation. Nobody could visit unless he specifically brought them.

The owls were still allowed in, though he'd had his misgivings; but, Tom had sent nothing but information and increasingly irritated insistences that Crevan reply to his missives. Tom had told him that he and Nott had visited Osbert and removed Dorothy from his recollection. He wrote to tell him that Elizabeth had been safely installed at St. Amelberga's Home for Girls just outside Bury St. Edmunds.

Crevan had resolved to write him back after the New Year, and he did. He told him that he was shocked by the turn that events had taken, but that he had accepted the course that Tom had taken, and that he believed it was for the better. He asserted that he was certain that Tom's decision had been appropriate. He wasn't sure that he believed this, but he had the feeling that it was the wisest thing to say. He invited Tom to join him for dinner when Alya Manderley and her aunts visited from Canada (minus Sabrina, who already returned to school) and he finally lifted the charms on his house.

He became social again, attending parties, teas, and Quidditch games. He had needed, he said, time to think; but, other than admitting to thinking, Crevan seemed very much the same to his friends as he'd always been.

The Manderleys came on January 15th, arriving on Crevan's lawn looking like piles of blankets with heads attached. Alya's head was perhaps the most noticeable, lily-white amongst masses of floral afghans, blue eyeshadow painted on to the eyebrows, platinum-blond Marcelled hair in an aurora around her. Her aunt Miranda, who looked most like her, was likewise thin, blond, and attractive, though rather short; she had a high-pitched, mousy voice that went right through Crevan the instant he met her. Cassandra, the middle sister, was tall with round, flat features: she looked to Crevan like a gigantically lofty porcelain doll, with ash-blond hair to her rear end, which was braided in plaits with bows to match her thick blue plaid blankets. And Julia, the youngest, had strawberry blond hair and large blue eyes, though she was a bit freckly. Alya said that the smallest number of men who had been courting her at any one time since she was sixteen was five.

"Hello there!" said Miranda, hopping off her broom. It was pink, he noticed. "Bit of a chill in the air, eh?"

"Quite; but the snow's gone, at least. Melted off last week."

"Cold as a witch's tit," said Julia, winking.

"Auntie Jules! Come, now, this is my future husband – I don't want him thinking of your tits," said Alya, coming over to Crevan and giving him a lurid pink kiss on the cheek. "How are you, darling? You look thin. And pale. And somehow shorter." She shrugged. "Oh, well – I love you anyway. Come, let's go inside. I've _so _much to tell you!"

The elves had created a wonderland of comfort in the morning room, unused since Crevan's mother died: its chandelier was lit, the fireplace was roaring, and a full high tea was set up at a table in the corner. With some surprise, he realized that if he married Alya, this room would essentially be hers – he had fond memories of this room, and his mother: she used to give him sweets to make him shut his mouth, and also used to Petrify him and stick him on the sofa when he wouldn't stop hitting his brother. He hoped Alya wouldn't ruin it.

"So, what've you got to tell me?" said Crevan, sitting down with the Manderley women at the table.

"Oh, it's _splendid, _Crevan. Do you remember that time we went to see _The Witches' Tale _with Arcturus and Melania Black? And all those _splendid _stories that Arcturus told about his friends in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? And he mentioned that his department was looking for a Records Clerk?"

"Er – maybe," Crevan said, trying to look as if he honestly might remember. He did remember that night: it was unseasonably hot for September, and he'd been sweating miserably under his robes, and his sock had constantly been creeping downward. The play had been boring, and he'd spent it trying to think of a way to make Alya allow him to touch her breasts (he hadn't been successful).

"Well, Melania wrote to me and wondered if _you _might be interested, and I said you probably would, that you were rather bored since graduation and that you'd be _ever _so fantastic at the job. So Arcturus wrote back and said that you simply _must _drop in, and you'd probably get it on the spot!"

"Er—"

"Isn't that fabulous?"

He blinked at her. Blinked again. And again. Miranda and Cassandra were grinning encouragingly at him; Julia was surreptitiously touching his knee.

"Er – yes! Fantastic!" His mouth was suddenly dry.

He couldn't _work_. No Bertrand had ever _worked. _And yet – she was right about being bored. His days lay before him, long and empty, and without any artistic or athletic inclinations, he had been grasping desperately at ways to waste away the hours. Working would fix that.

"I'll go Monday. It certainly does sound quite the thing."

"I _knew _you'd see it that way! Cheers to Crevan's new job!" She held up her teacup, and her aunts followed suit. Crevan wished he could simply tell Julia to remove her hand. She was rather obnoxious.

He left the ladies alone to dress for dinner, and he went for a walk through the grounds. The grass was hard and brown beneath his feet, and he was wearing two pairs of mittens and two hats, but he needed time to digest this. A government job. It was both prestigious and dishonorable: not only was he _working_, he hadn't really done anything to deserve the work, and he'd likely be commanding at least one other person who was a good deal cleverer than he; and he'd probably be a misfit because everybody would know how he'd got the position. And yet – he'd felt separate from the world lately, since the incident in Truro, and despite the parties he'd attended, he'd felt like a shade of himself. Perhaps this would make him feel himself again.

When he returned, he himself dressed for dinner – black robes with stylish pinstripe lining and matching bow tie, and Tom could stuff his opinions about bow ties – and joined the ladies in the drawing room, where he dedicatedly avoided Julia.

Tom Apparated into the parlor precisely at seven. Crevan didn't bother saying that he thought this was rude and unstylish. As long as that was the worst thing Tom did all night, he could tolerate it.

"It's been too long," said Tom, smiling blankly as Crevan shook his hand. "Been enjoying your small sabbatical?"

"As much as I could," Crevan replied.

"Is that – it is! Tom from Borgin's! How _have _you been?" said Alya from across the room, where she'd been talking to Julia about some friend of hers back in Canada.

"You two –" began Crevan, but Tom had already given Alya his full attention, and she him.

"Excellent," Tom said to Alya. "How is Manitoba?"

"Oh, lovely – cold, but lovely. How's your collection coming?"

Crevan couldn't believe this. He'd mentioned Alya hundreds of times to Tom, and he'd never acknowledged that he knew her. And he'd certainly mentioned him to her, and still, nothing. What had they been keeping from him? Had they…had they _been _together? Crevan wasn't sure that he could marry a woman who'd slept with Tom.

And _what _collection? Tom didn't have a collection, except maybe of black suits, since that was all he ever wore.

"Slowly," said Tom. "Although, given that I'm not as financially well-endowed as Crevan here, well enough."

"Now, just one moment!" said Crevan, trying unsuccessfully to hide his annoyance beneath a broad smile. "No idea you two knew each other – why the secrecy, hey?"

"I had mentioned that I'd met Alya at Borgin and Burke's, had I not?" Tom said mildly. "One afternoon we were both shopping, and started a price war over a comb that had supposedly been owned by Wendelin the Weird. We have a mutual interest in collectibles. I've led her to a couple attractive finds since I got a position there."

"I –" He felt it impolite to accuse Tom of lying in front of all the Manderleys. "Perhaps I hadn't been listening."

Alya laughed. "Honestly, Crevan, are you _jealous? _You know I only have eyes for you!"

And it was true that Tom had never shown any interest in the opposite sex, or any sex whatsoever. Still, it seemed odd – especially given that – to keep the acquaintance secret.

He tried to push it from his mind as they all adjoined to the dining room. Julia was ogling Tom intensely, which Tom didn't notice; he was now involved in talking with all assembled about the odd characters he ran into at Burgin's.

"I'm sure I'll run into plenty of odd ducks myself," Crevan said, yearning to contribute something, _anything_, to the Tom-dominated conversation, "now that I'll be working for the Ministry."

"Crevan Bertrand finally got himself a career, did he?" said Tom, evidently mildly amused. "Doing what?"

"Department of – of Magical Law Enforcement. Record-keeping." He took a sip of his red wine. "Should be interesting."

"What sort of records? Arrests, investigations, things of that nature?"

"I'd imagine so. Anything…law-related, I'd think."

Tom smiled. "Interesting indeed. You'll be the first to know all manner of pertinent tidbits of information. You must tell me if they have a file on me."

He said it teasingly, but Crevan couldn't take it as a joke. He had murdered Dorothy and her aunt – they probably _did _have a file on him.

After dinner, the ladies adjoined to the parlor, and Tom and Crevan went to the library for a game of chess. Crevan couldn't even think of the game; he was still pondering Tom's and Alya's acquaintance. It all seemed highly unusual – made him uneasy.

He had just opened his mouth to speak – to ask some probing question – when Tom spoke first.

"Crevan, do you obtain all your collectibles from Borgin and Burke's?"

"Yes, mainly. Why?"

He actually looked a touch disappointed. "No reason. I've been trying to track down a particular item, but nothing of its kind has ever come through Borgin's."

"What is it?"

For a moment, Tom looked at him with a surprising amount of hostility. "Nothing," he said. "Don't need any competition in looking for it."

"Ah. Well, if you told me, I could help –"

"No, thank you. I'll keep looking." He moved his rook, taking one of Crevan's pawns. "Do the Bertrands have a vault at Gringotts? I'll be needing a secure place to store something of mine temporarily – soon."

"No, my family have never trusted goblins – our money's in Europe. What's with this line of questioning, Tom? Something going on?"

"No, nothing. Work-related, that's all." He moved a bishop. "Check."


End file.
